


Where Two Paths Meet

by bioticbootyshaker



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2452955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticbootyshaker/pseuds/bioticbootyshaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reeling from the death of her mother, Lucasta Hawke tries to set her grief aside and move forward. Finding herself caught at a crossroads in her life, she finds herself turning to the warmth and comfort of Sebastian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before the Party

Lucasta read the note three times before crumpling it into a ball and tossing it in the fire. Embers jumped and settled, and the words might as well have never existed. Nagging at the back of her mind was the worry that she was ignoring her duties and responsibilities, unshouldering her burdens onto the city that had given her safe harbor when she was at her most desperate; but the Blight take them, she had a life to live. Every event didn’t demand her presence.

This one, though, had sounded important. Apparently the Viscount wished to give her some fancy title, and only the most prestigious, prominent citizens were invited. Attention had always been to her liking, and fancy balls were a fabulous way to mingle and garner as much focus as she could -- but at the same time, it had been only a few months since the murder of her mother, and she didn’t want to make light of her loss or her grief.

People saw her only as the effusive, exuberant woman who had raised coin enough to rival the elite of Kirkwall. Of course they wanted to meet her, and of course the Viscount -- who, Lucasta felt, had more important things to deal with than hiring musicians and having a feast prepared -- wanted to thank her for all she’d done to keep Kirkwall... _somewhat_ safe. 

_Safer_ , at least.

Leandra would have wanted her to attend. She would have made such a fuss over her, curling her hair and helping with her makeup and taking Lucasta to the ritziest shops in town to find the perfect dress. Though her mother had left her life behind when she had sailed across the Waking Sea with Malcolm all those years ago, she had never separated herself from the glamor and esteem of Hightown. Perhaps it could be a fitting tribute to her, putting up her hair and slipping on her heels and marching into the ballroom with someone on her arm.

_At the very least you wouldn’t be cooped up with Bodahn and Sandal for one night,_ she thought. 

 

Another night of listening to Bodahn drone on about his time with the Hero of Ferelden while Sandal got into mischief in the larder didn’t sound all that appealing.

Her mabari, Pumpkin, whined as the note she’d tossed into the fire curled into a wisp of black ash, and the fire popped and hissed. Lucasta scratched behind his ear, looking down at him with a lopsided smile. “I guess I can’t ask you to get that for me, can I?”

Pumpkin tilted his head.

“Fine, fine,” Lucasta grumbled. “I’ll just have to pay the Viscount a visit, then.”

****

The Keep was quiet when Lucasta entered. She was used to hustle and bustle; people demanding the Viscount’s attention, Seneschal Bran turning them away with one of his long, weary sighs and the wave of his hand. From what she could see, there were only a few people milling about, and they didn’t seem to be on any sort of urgent business. 

_Great_ , Lucasta thought. _Should be a cinch getting in to see Dumar_.

As it turned out, it was impossible. Bran informed her -- with all the levity of a funeral procession -- that Viscount Dumar had left Kirkwall to tend to “business”, and he wouldn’t be back for several days. When Lucasta pressed him for an explanation, his face turned red, and he told her, with more bluster than was necessary, that she was not entitled to the information.

“You might hold some sway with the Viscount because of what you did for his boy,” Bran said. “But do not presume to hold sway enough to divine his intentions.” 

Lucasta smiled. If Bran was hot under the collar before, that only added fuel to his fire. Honestly, she didn’t know why he detested her the way he did, and she didn’t care; one little toady not liking the way she smiled and handled her affairs was the least of her concern. 

It was fun to tease him, though, and to watch his usually controlled, bored expression twist. Better still, when he could do nothing but quietly fume and stew with the Viscount nearby. 

The Viscount wasn’t nearby now, though, and Bran seemed to feel a bit bolder with his absence. 

“If you have nothing to ask, I will say good day, _Hawke_. Unlike you, there are some of us who have actual duties to perform.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to shoot the breeze with me, Seneschal?” Lucasta asked, with feigned sugary sweetness. She enjoyed the way Bran’s cheeks glowed red, and even when she left at his shouted insistence, she was laughing. 

Aimless, Lucasta wandered to Aveline’s office in the Barracks, taking care to look around before entering. Aveline had warned her against making frequent, unannounced visits -- and especially against doing so when her guardsmen were nearby. They might think their Captain was actually social and had a life outside of her armor and her rank -- and Maker, that would have been terrible. 

_We can’t all be so careless with how we present ourselves,_ Aveline had said, with enough affection to make the insult seem kind. _I would love to gallivant about the countryside with you, Hawke, but we all have duties we need to attend to._

Everyone was always going on and on about duty. Honestly, if Bran and Aveline wished to drown themselves in protocol and obligation and _obedience_ , that was their choice to make. Lucasta, meanwhile, reveled in the finer things that that duty afforded her; sovereigns, to be specific, and status. 

“I don’t want to alarm you,” Lucasta said, leaning on her elbows across Aveline’s desk. “But I managed to get into your office with not a single of your guardsmen stopping me.”

 

“That would be because they know who you are,” Aveline said, absently, her attention focused more on the stack of papers fanned out over her desk than the woman leaned against it. “And considering the last time Brennan asked you what you were doing in the Barracks, you complained of being harassed and that your ‘ _rights as a citizen were being clearly and monstrously violated_ ’, I don’t imagine too many of my guardsmen want to be involved in your antics.”

“If not my antics, then _whose_?” Lucasta asked. “My antics are obviously the best in the city. They’re holding a ball for me and everything.”

At that, Aveline flicked her eyes up, one brow cocked curiously. “Excuse me?” She asked. 

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Lucasta asked, rather nonchalantly. “I would have thought the entire Keep was abuzz with the news. Seems the Viscount wants to honor me or something. There’s a feast and everything. Wants to give me a title.” Here she shrugged, as though it was nothing to be excited about. “Baroness of something, I don’t know. I’d rather be called Kingslayer, if it’s all the same to him. Not that I’ve killed any kings, mind you, but that has some _cachet._ ”

“The Viscount wishes to give you a title?,” Aveline asked, flatly, looking up at Lucasta with disbelief. “I don’t mean to sound rude, but... _why_?”

In Lucasta’s opinion, she sounded _extremely_ rude, but it didn’t matter. “Oh, who knows?” Lucasta said. “Saving the city, time and again? Rescuing his boy? Making sure the Arishok stays calm with that small army he has with him camping out at the docks? Or maybe he just likes me. People _do_ like me, you know.”

“You’re a very charming pain in the ass, yes,” Aveline said. “I’m well aware of that.”

“Ouch,” Lucasta said. “That hurt.”

“Am I invited to this little soiree?” Aveline asked. 

“Well, not with that attitude,” Lucasta said. 

Still, beneath her levity and excitement, there was worry. Was she doing this because Leandra would have been excited to send her to a party held in her honor, or was she simply deflecting, letting the worst of her grief and anger and sadness glance off of her heart? Surely she was allowed to have _some_ fun, even hurt and lost as she was? 

“I don’t suppose that would be good manners,” Aveline said. “My father raised me better than that.”

“Mine didn’t,” Lucasta said, and Aveline shooed her from her office. 

****

On her way back to the Estate, Lucasta stopped by the Chantry. She wasn’t sure why. Ever since Leandra’s death, she hadn’t been going to services as regularly as she once had. The loss of her mother hadn’t dimmed her faith or her devotion to the Maker, not by any means, but it had made her weary of those offering platitudes and hollow words of condolences. 

The statue of Andraste at its heart was both imposing and beautiful, much like she believed the actual woman must have been. Beautiful enough to earn the Maker’s affections, yet powerful enough to fan the flames of resistance and war. Looking at her, Lucasta felt like an impostor. What had she done to deserve honor and glory, truly? Killing bandits and keeping the Qunari quiet didn’t seem worth all the fuss the Viscount was making over her. 

Instead of dwelling on the negative feelings, Lucasta turned her focus to Sebastian, who was exiting one of the side rooms with a sister; the woman was a little flushed and giggly, and she clung to Sebastian like she was adrift in a sea and he was her only salvation. When Lucasta approached, the woman looked guilty, as though she’d committed some sin by hanging onto Sebastian’s arm and giggling like a small girl. 

Sebastian smiled at Lucasta. “Hello, Hawke,” he said, warmly. “What brings you to the Chantry today? You don’t need any help writing more letters, I trust?”

Lucasta furrowed her brow at that. He was smiling a little too sweetly for her to be cross with him, though, so she settled on just shaking her head. “No, not this time,” she said. “I was only wondering if you’d heard the news through the grapevine. Or... do you even _have_ a grapevine here?”

“We do,” Sebastian said. “Though gossip is frowned upon.”

“Quite,” the sister said, giggling again when Sebastian patted her hand and turned his smile to her. Sensing that Lucasta wished to speak to him in private, she made herself scarce shortly after; though not without casting a moony expression at Sebastian as she left. 

“She’s twice your age,” Lucasta said. 

“And a sister,” Sebastian said. “Don’t besmirch her honor.”

“Who’s besmirching?” Lucasta asked. “I’m not besmirching.”

“You said you have news?” Sebastian asked. His smile, finally, faltered, and he looked at her with some exasperation. Funny, Aveline had had the exact same look on her face when she’d left.

“Nothing that important,” Lucasta said. “Just a little party. I was wondering if you wanted to come.”

“A party?” Sebastian asked. “You’re not hiding anything are you?”

For some reason, Lucasta enjoyed Sebastian not knowing the entire truth. It felt like it was a secret, something that she could spring on him at the last minute to see the look on his face. No doubt he would be impressed with the fuss everyone made over her. 

“Of course not,” Lucasta lied. “Why would I do that? So, would you like to come, or can I put you down as a ‘no’?”

“I’m not sure,” Sebastian said. “When is this party? I have my duties here, and I don’t like disappointing the Grand Cleric. She is cross enough with me as it is.”

Lucasta didn’t pry. She knew that his relationship with the Grand Cleric was occasionally rocky -- due in large part to his recklessness and restlessness -- and she didn’t want to touch on a sensitive subject. If he wanted her to know what was happening, he would tell her. 

He didn’t elaborate, so Lucasta forged ahead. 

“Two weeks from today, actually,” she said. “It’s being held at the grand ballroom, in the Keep.” 

She thought that might pique his interest, but Sebastian remained unimpressed. No doubt he had attended so many parties over the years that nothing _could_ impress him; or maybe he was too focused on whatever the tension was between him and Elthina. Either way, Lucasta was disappointed. It wasn’t much fun teasing someone if they didn’t even know -- or care -- that they were being teased. 

“Be there or be _ware_ ,” Lucasta warned. “I have a bad temper, Vael.”

At that, at least, he smiled. Not the charming smile he used to bring color to people’s cheeks; but a small smile that barely turned up the corners of his lips. A sweet smile, Lucasta thought, and she smiled back. 

“Noted,” he said. Taking a look around, Sebastian leaned in close to her. “I wanted to ask how you’ve been since-- I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“Just fine,” Lucasta said, with feigned cheerfulness. “Life goes on, you know? Well, for most of us.” At the jest, there was a painful pang in her chest, but she ignored it, as she had been ignoring it since Leandra’s death. “I don’t want you cooped up in here worrying about me. You have a whole city of miserable people to worry about.”

He looked hesitant to accept her reticence, but Sebastian was an obliging fellow, at least most of the time. _Thank the Maker for small favors_ , Lucasta thought. _The last thing I want is to have him hold my hand and walk me through everything like a child._

Either she would heal on her own time, or she would not heal at all. Either way, Lucasta was sure there was nothing anyone could do to help her. 

“You’re my friend,” he said. “Of course I worry.”

The word came from his mouth so small, but it struck her heart with a heavy, resonant blow. From there, it trembled through her bones and blood, until she was filled with its echo. _Friend_. Lucasta wondered how anyone could be her friend; she was energetic and vibrant enough, true, but she spent so much of her time building up walls and barring anyone from getting too close. Yet Sebastian stood there, tossing the word about so casually. 

“You shouldn’t,” Lucasta repeated. “I’m fine.”

There was an awkward silence between them. Sebastian cleared his throat a few times and avoided her eyes. There was a flush on his face now, and Lucasta didn’t know the reason behind his high color. If he was embarrassed by worrying about her, he needn’t have been. 

“I should be going,” she said. “Don’t forget about the party. I’d like for you to be there.” She touched his arm, briefly. “And don’t muck things up too badly with the Grand Cleric. She gives you free room and board, doesn’t she? You’re not moving in with me if she tosses you out.”

Sebastian laughed. “No, I wouldn’t imagine you’d like having me there.”

Lucasta wouldn’t mind, really, having a friend to share the nights with when she sat by the fire with dark thoughts swirling, but she didn’t say that to Sebastian. Instead, she said her farewells and slipped out of the Chantry to make her way home.


	2. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of Lucasta's party has arrived, and to combat her nervous energy, she spends it with her friends, getting ready. 
> 
> But the party isn't quite what she expected.

Leading up to the party, Lucasta was more nervous than she’d ever been. True, she was very extroverted, and thrived on attention, but even still, she had never been on such a grand stage before, surrounded by so many prominent people. She could almost hear Leandra, bursting with pride, as the days drew on and her party drew closer and closer; she would have made such a fuss over everything, gushing about the latest fashions and critiquing the dress Lucasta had picked out, and the shoes she planned on wearing.

She could imagine Leandra sitting behind her at her vanity, combing out her curls and humming to herself as she braided and tugged and pinned and styled. Funny, Lucasta had always hated having her mother do her hair when she’d been small, but now she wanted so badly for Leandra to sigh about how tangled her hair was and how she might actually look presentable if she ran a comb through it every now and again.

Grief was such a funny thing: you never quite knew when it would throw punches, and where they would land. Lucasta considered herself fairly well prepared for the blows, but they still landed rough and low, knocking the wind from her.

Best not to dwell on things that couldn’t be changed. It was a philosophy she’d taken to from a young age, and one she held onto through the years. Whether it was avoidance or just sage wisdom, Lucasta couldn’t have said; all she knew was that it had served her well enough.

Since Leandra couldn’t do it for her, Isabela braided her hair, taking care to smooth out any tangles she came across. She clucked her tongue at the snags, fussing when Lucasta moved away from her and made a pained noise. “Stay still,” Isabela ordered. “Or you’ll be showing up to your party with a bald spot.”

“Give me something interesting to talk about,” Lucasta laughed, somewhat nervously. If it were anyone else, she wouldn’t have mentioned it, but Isabela had always been close to her; a bosom buddy, of sort -- which never failed to make the both of them giggle, mature sophisticates that they were. “I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been,” she said. “How stupid is that?”

“Pretty stupid,” Isabela teased. Smiling, she leaned in and touched her lips to Lucasta’s temple. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. If you get in over your head, just come find me, I’ll be by the buffet table, watching the rich people.”

“Eyeing their purses, you mean,” Lucasta said.

“Aww, would I do something like that?” Isabela asked, her smile becoming somewhat wolfish. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”

Now that Isabela was through braiding and twisting and pulling at her hair, Lucasta realized her head was rather pretty. She admired it in the hand mirror Isabela passed to her as Isabela stood and stretched her back, easing her hands against a knotted bit of muscle. “Bugger, I’m getting old,” Isabela complained. “At this rate I’ll have to settle for robbing little old ladies in the market.”

“Nah,” Lucasta said. She turned the mirror to admire Isabela’s braiding, smiling at her handiwork. “You’re not there yet. I think you can still tangle with the best of them.”

“You’re sweet,” Isabela purred, leaving a kiss at the top of Lucasta’s head. “When is this little party of yours, by the way?”

“Sunset,” Lucasta said. It seemed like such a long time to wait, and she was feeling antsier the more time passed. If she didn’t find something to distract herself with soon, Lucasta was convinced she’d never make the party at all -- having spontaneously combusted and all.

****

Merrill twined flowers through her braid, humming to herself as her fingers worked. Even though they had recently been at odds with one another, Merrill still worked to help her relax before the party, even giving Lucasta a book to read as she threaded wildflowers through her hair.

The story of the Dread Wolf -- which Lucasta had already heard Merrill tell -- and a few other stories. Some of them were lengthy, detailing the pantheon of the Gods and the hierarchy therein, while others were woefully brief, small poems about Arlathan and finding home. Lovely, and, perhaps more important, _distracting_.

“The Chantry calls Shartan a heretic,” Lucasta said, flipping through the faded, brittle pages carefully, stopping when she saw the elf’s name. “But the Dalish have a different telling, don’t they?”

“Not surprising,” Merrill said. “Your Chantry isn’t very fond of elves leading resistances, if I remember right.”

“The Chantry isn’t very fond of elves, period,” Lucasta said.

“Shartan saw the suffering of our people and he refused to remain idle. If he were a human man, he would be celebrated as a hero. Instead, he is condemned as an instigator, a bringer of war.” Merrill sighed to herself, slipping the last flower into Lucasta’s hair. “He only wanted someplace to call home.”

That was a want that everyone shared, Lucasta thought. Human, elf, dwarf, even the Qunari. Someplace to call home, to return to when the day grew late or the sky threatened with thunder. Someplace where dust and dirt could be washed away and you could settle, safe in the knowledge that you were _home_ , where nothing could hurt you.

Except, of course, that everything could.

“Ooh, you look so pretty,” Merrill said, smoothing down a few stray hairs. Heavy topics never seemed to last long between them; Lucasta had no patience for them, and Merrill was too cheerful to dwell on them for too long. _Good_ , Lucasta thought, _I don’t want to show up to my party looking like I just left a funeral._

The words, though absently thought, carried a sting.

“I hope there’s dancing,” Merrill said. “There’ll be dancing, won’t there? I really hope so.”

“Probably,” Lucasta said. “What kind of party doesn’t have dancing?”

Honestly, she didn’t know much about her party. The Viscount was still out of the city, the last Lucasta had heard, and no other letters had been sent. She could only assume no details had changed since the first letter and show up in her party dress.

“I bet Sebastian asks you to dance,” Merrill said, giddily.

“I’ll take that bet,” Lucasta said. “Ten sovereigns says he doesn’t.”

****

Fenris, it turned out, had an entirely different view on dancing than Merrill. The two of them disagreeing didn’t surprise Lucasta -- Fenris’ embarrassment and soft, worried eyes _did_ , however.

“I do not dance,” Fenris said, very matter-of-factly.

“You don’t have to dance,” Lucasta said. “I don’t think people hold a knife to your throat and _make_ you, Fenris.”

“They might as well,” Fenris desponded, sitting across from her with his elbows on his knees and his face cupped in his hands. “I can just imagine what Kirkwall’s elite will say about the elf dressed in black and spikes that doesn’t wish to dance.”

“I’m pretty sure they’ll be more aghast at your arriving barefoot,” Lucasta said. “Just imagine the snickering.”

“It’s not funny,” Fenris said, though his lips turned up at the corners. “I’m being serious.”

“Who cares what they think?” Lucasta said. “They’re nothing but a bunch of stuck up, pompous airheads who are there for the free food and the chance to gossip about people behind their backs.”

“Yet you still wish to have this party,” Fenris said.

“Well, yeah,” Lucasta said. “I mean... They won’t be snickering at me.”

“You’re helpful as always, Hawke,” Fenris said, covering his face with his hands and sighing against his palms.

“Happy to help,” Lucasta said, patting his shoulder.

****

Varric gave her a bit of advice as the hour of her party drew nearer and she paced from one end of his suite to the other.

“Sit down before you give me anxiety,” he said, and Lucasta eased herself into a chair across from him. Even seated, she drummed her fingers against the table and constantly shifted her body around until Varric offered her a pint to calm her down.

“I don’t drink,” she said. “You know that.”

“I was just hoping you’d changed your mind,” Varric said. “Listen, Hawke. If you don’t relax I’m going to have to throw you out of here, and I’m not too keen on the idea of having you angry with me.”

She sighed, slowly, leaning her head back and trying to relax. But every time she did, she was reminded that her party began in less than an hour, and she was the guest of honor. Everyone there would be watching her, waiting for her to either impress them, or confirm their beliefs that she was not worth making such a fuss about. And that, in and of itself, wasn’t so terrible -- after all, Lucasta had never minded the limelight, and she was not a shrinking violet. But it was the expectations that worried her; the stories that had been told, the grand tales that had been spun from simple, more modest truths.

The whole of Kirkwall expected a legend to enter the ballroom, and it would only be her; slight and small and silent under the collective sigh of everyone around her when they found out she was nothing special.

“What’re they gonna do?” Varric asked. “Throw their knickers at you? Don’t worry about it, Hawke. They’re just a bunch of stuffed shirts. You’re worth a hundred of ‘em.”  
,  
“This is coming from my personal biographer,” Lucasta said. “You’re the whole reason people think I can kill a dragon with my bare hands and shit gold.”

“Hey,” Varric chuckled. “Sometimes I think it’s actually true.”

****

“You look beautiful, lady,” Orana said, softly, when Lucasta descended the stairs.

“Don’t I?” Lucasta asked. She was dressed in a lavender pantsuit, lavender and silky. Isabela said the color complemented her skin and hair, though Lucasta had a sneaking suspicion she likedit more for its sparkles and the gems painstakingly embroidered into blouse. _Once a pirate, always a pirate_ , Lucasta thought, with great affection.

“Master Sebastian is waiting for you,” Orana said. “He’s sitting in the foyer. I asked him if he wanted to wait in here but he said he didn’t want to make me uncomfortable with his presence. I told him he didn’t but---”

“It’s alright,” Lucasta said, gently. “Thank you, Orana.” She squeezed her shoulder, her touch as gentle as her voice, and stepped past her into the foyer, spotting Sebastian seated on the bench by the wall, trying to smooth the creases from his trousers. His hair, usually slicked back from his face, was in loose waves over his brow and cheeks, and he had a little color on his face when he saw her. He stood with a rush, walking to her, already mid-apology when he got to her.

“I’m sorry if I’m late. I tried to get away sooner but the Grand Cleric needed my assistance and I---” He stopped, smiling a bit bashfully, his eyes drifting down to her feet and then back up to her eyes. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Lucasta said. “You don’t look terrible.”

“That was my aim,” Sebastian said, with a chuckle. He held out his arm to her, and Lucasta slipped her arm through. “Care to take a walk with me? It might give us a chance to catch up a bit.”

“What are we going to do at the party, then?” Lucasta asked. “Stare into the dip bowl and try not to be too awkward?”

“I’m sure we’ll think of something to do,” Sebastian said, walking with her to the door and giving her a lopsided smile. “We could always dance.”

Maker’s breath, Merrill must have mentioned the bet to him.

“You’re not getting any sovereigns out of me,” Lucasta warned.

“No,” Sebastian said. “Merrill is.”

****

Their walk to the Keep was slow and meandering. Lucasta forgot about the little ball of dread and fear in her stomach and simply enjoyed chatting with Sebastian. He made an excellent companion, actually; he was a good listener and he walked at the perfect speed and he laughed at her jokes at just the right time, and with just the right enthusiasm.

“You’re nervous,” he said, as the doors to the Keep finally loomed before them.

“What? That’s ridiculous,” Lucasta chided. “In fact that’s the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever said to me.”

His smile was softer, slightly amused. “It’s alright to be nervous, Hawke,” he said. “Even the bravest of us can be afraid from time to time.”

It would have been easier for her to admit that the sky was green than it was for her to admit she was afraid. In fact, it was simpler getting her to do just about anything than it was getting her to talk about her feelings. She was like a vault in many ways, locked up tight and secure, and only a few people knew her combination; and even then, she could slam closed on them just as easily as anyone else.

“Me? Afraid?” Lucasta rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay. I’m afraid of a party. Of people gushing about me and climbing over each other to get a chance to talk with me. That does sound like hell.”

Sebastian’s smile never faltered. Lucasta wished he would stop smiling, and stop looking like he knew what she felt and thought and _needed_. No one knew what went on behind her ribs and under her skin and inside of her head but _her_ , and the sooner Sebastian learned that, the better.

“Don’t be so smug,” Lucasta said. “It makes you look constipated.”

They entered the Keep, and Lucasta was struck immediately by how empty it was. She had expected guests and staff to greet her at the entrance, with champagne and silver trays of delectable treats; but instead, there was only a handful of people about, one of them a man who seemed to be there every time she visited, kicking at the wall while a guardsman fussed.

“Huh,” Lucasta muttered. “That’s Free March hospitality for you.”

“We Free Marchers are very hospitable, thank you,” Sebastian said. “Probably waiting for you in the ballroom.”

Lucasta scanned the hall for Bran, but he must have been in the ballroom, passive aggressively whining about how Kirkwall cared more about Hawke than it did about the Viscount and the important issues of the day. While she had no doubt that everyone would ignore him to the best of their ability, she held out a small hope that someone would tire of him and deck him in the mouth.

When Bran didn’t show himself, she scanned for Aveline, and when she didn’t spot _her_ , she looked for any of her friends.

Maybe they were all in the ballroom, waiting for her. Perhaps the Viscount had worried about the lack of space in the hall and ordered the party not to spill out past the reception area. Whatever the case, Lucasta neared the ballroom with Sebastian close behind her. There was a small, brief feeling of dread as her fingers rested on the latch -- some voice in the back of her head whispered that it was a mistake to go inside, that it was far too quiet on the other side of the door for any kind of gathering to be there. But she pushed the worries aside and pressed down on the latch, swinging the door open.

What harm could come to her in the Keep?

****

Sebastian made a confused noise behind her.

The room was empty.

No people, no tables filled with food, no decorations, no soft music playing as couples danced around the spacious floor. There was not a breath of noise; in fact, it felt like the room hadn’t been used in some time, like it was nothing more than a place to store boxes and papers when their proper places overflowed.

“We must have the wrong room,” Sebastian said. “We should find the Seneschal and--”

As they stepped inside the room further, the door swung closed behind them with a loud bang. Lucasta didn’t scream, but it was a near thing. She bit the inside of her cheek and felt the cold air of the slamming door rush up her back.

She turned and saw a woman standing there, pale-skinned and dark-eyed, with a smile that sent chills through her. “We’ve been waiting for you,” she crooned. “Thank you for coming, Hawke.”

“Thanks for the invitation,” Lucasta said. “I have to say it’s a little... bare. Is this what passes for a party in the Free Marches? Back in Ferelden we used to, you know, have punch and cake and dancing and... Well, _fun_.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Sebastian’s hand move to his hip, his fingers stroking over the hilt of a dagger. She had left hers on her bedside table; a mistake that she wouldn’t be making again -- if she was even given the chance. 

“Is the Viscount sick?” Lucasta asked. “We can reschedule it’s no big de--”

“The Viscount is away,” the woman said. “And so is his sycophantic little Seneschal. We wanted you all to ourselves.”

“Oh,” Lucasta said. “I’m really hoping there’s more than just you, because this ‘we’ business is starting to worry me.”

From the shadows, figures emerged. Lucasta couldn’t remember seeing them before, which led her to believe they were either made of the shadows themselves, or had used magic to conceal themselves. Judging by their dress and the staves cradled in their hands, she figured the latter was closer to the truth.

“Hawke,” Sebastian whispered to her. “They’ve the mark of Starkhaven on them.”

Sure enough, they each wore a brand of the city on their bodies, and carved into the wood of their staves.

_Just like Grace and Alain_ , she thought; and then, after that, with a chill: _And Quentin._

“He was so close,” the woman whispered, taking a few steps nearer to Lucasta. “And you had to ruin everything by killing him. But death is only the beginning, that’s what he taught us. There is so much more that comes after.”

“Right,” Lucasta said. She swallowed, backing up when the woman kept creeping nearer. “I think this is the part where I excuse myself. I didn’t mean to intrude on... whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Oh, it’s no intrusion,” the woman said. “We can’t move forward without you.”

Lucasta tried to get around her, but the men who had emerged from the shadows grabbed her. Sebastian made a pained noise as one of the men grabbed his wrist and twisted the blade from his hand, before throwing him up against the wall and pinning him there.

“You should have burned his research,” the woman whispered, before Lucasta was asleep beneath her heavy blanket of magic.


	3. The After Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up in a cell with no idea of where she is, Lucasta struggles to keep herself calm and to find a way out.

_Lucasta knew she was dreaming, yet she couldn’t seem to control anything. The dream moved on around her, and all she could do was helplessly follow along, pulled by some dark, pervasive magic that refused to unwind itself from her._

_She found herself in the center of a very familiar room. There were sharp, reaching shadows on the walls as the candlelight flickered, and though she knew it was a dream, and she understood that she had nothing to fear while she was here, a shiver worked through her body._

_Because she knew this room well. This was where she had found Quentin, under the foundry in Lowtown. This was where she had held her mother as she’d died._

_Violently, Lucasta fought against the dream. Beyond this, she could almost feel her body twisting and writhing. She wanted to shout, to beat against the walls of the dream, to tear it to shreds and free herself; but she was motionless and unblinking and held prisoner in the throes of her own consciousness. Whatever magic held her was far stronger than she was used to, and she had no way to defend herself._

_Leandra stood from the chair and staggered forward. Her head was down, a heavy veil covering her face as she shuffled. Lucasta tried to back away, to do something other than stand there in grief and shock, but still, she was transfixed._

_Her head lifted, and the veil parted._

_Lucasta finally found her voice as she screamed, finally found her muscles as she reeled backwards._

_Her own face stared back at her, bloodied and ruined._

****

She woke screaming, the sound echoing back to her from high, sloping stone walls. For a wild moment, Lucasta believed she had been brought back to the place where her mother had died, and the panic in her was so intense that for an agonizing stretch of minutes she could do nothing but lie there, trembling and paralyzed, whimpering softly.

When she realized she was somewhere different, her muscles relaxed enough for her to struggle up onto her knees and peer around the room. She was underground, obviously, judging from the chill and the stink coming off of the walls -- but it was no part of the city she had ever been. Not the Underground; she had walked its tunnels and secret passages numerous times. Perhaps they had taken her out of the city, placed her beneath the hills of Sundermount, where ancient elves had once resided.

No, there was the emblem of Kirkwall, emblazoned on a pennant on the far wall. They hadn’t secreted her anywhere outside of the city, though Lucasta had no idea if they meant to or not. What she mattered wasn’t where they had taken her or what they meant to do with her, but what she could do to free herself.

 _I can’t believe they pulled this over on me_ , she thought. _How am I ever going to show my face in this city again?_

That kind of thinking wasn’t helping. In fact, it was dangerous. The more time she wasted chastising herself and stewing in her own anger over being conned, the less likely it became that she’d ever find a way out of the mess she was in. So, shoving the thoughts away, Lucasta took stock of where she was.

It looked to be a makeshift cell, crudely carved into the stone, with a rusted gate wedged between the gap. Lucasta moved to inspect the gate, to see if she could work it loose or squeeze herself through, but she was jerked back to the ground with a loud clang of metal. Her shoulder throbbing dully, Lucasta looked and in the dimness found that she was chained to the wall with a heavy manacle.

 _Shit_ , she thought. _Shit, shit, shit._

“This is blighted _wonderful_ ,” Lucasta snapped.

“ _Hawke_ ,” Sebastian whispered, a bit desperately. She couldn’t see him, but his voice bounced off of the stone, coming from across the darkness. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Lucasta sighed, pulling uselessly at her restraint. “Guess so. You?”

“Still in one piece,” Sebastian said. “But they tore my slacks.”

“The monsters,” Lucasta said.

She was about to ask if their kidnappers had bothered to chain him to the wall when she heard the rap of metal against the stone floor and a pained, “oof”, following. “They’ve got me chained here,” Sebastian said. Lucasta could sense the panic in his voice, but he was doing his damnedest to keep himself calm. Honestly, she didn’t feel much like consoling him, considering she was in the same mess he was -- they would simply have to keep themselves as calm as they could.

“Same here,” Lucasta said. “Do you see anything to pry the cuffs off with?”

Too quickly, he answered: “No, nothing.”

“Calm down,” Lucasta eased. “And look again.”

This time, it was nearly two minutes before he returned with the same answer.

Her sigh came sharp through her teeth. What could they be planning to do with them? Why had they waited more than three months to come for her? If it was revenge they wanted, Lucasta had news for them; she had killed Quentin for the torture and murder of her mother -- that had ended the cycle of revenge permanently. They had nothing to be angry with her over. She had done the world a favor when she had stilled the monster’s heart, and her only regret was that she couldn’t bring him back so she could kill him all over again.

Lucasta made a pained noise, looking down at her palms. She had curled her fingers so tightly that there were bloody crescents sunk into the skin. With a deep breath, she tried to keep herself calm, to not let herself fall into the pit of rage and grief and sadness that she knew awaited her over the edge.

“Lucasta,” Sebastian called. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Lucasta said, wincing. “Fine and dandy.”

“What are we going to do?” He asked, as though Lucasta was privy to some knowledge he didn’t have. For a brief, hot moment, she was angry with him. What did he expect from her? Did he want her to rip herself free of the shackle and beat down the gates that separated them? Did he want her to save him, the way she was always expected to save everyone?

But that wasn’t fair. He was frightened, and confused, as much as she was. And he had been kind to her, and patient with her, during a very dark time.

“I don’t know,” Lucasta said. And, softer, she added: “You shouldn’t have even been there, Sebastian.”

There was an apology in there, somewhere. For what, she didn’t know. All she knew was that they had to get away, and soon.

She heard footsteps coming down the hall, thudding on the stone floor like the drums from her dreams.

****

After an hour of waiting, Isabela decided that there wasn’t going to be a party after all. She had gotten Lucasta all dolled up for nothing, apparently. Not that Hawke minded being pampered and spoiled and decorated, but she had been expecting a swanky party, and she was disappointed.

“All that coin,” Isabela sighed. “I won’t see a bit of it.”

Fenris was leaned against the wall, looking downright presentable in a sleek suit that Isabela had picked out for him. He pushed off when she spoke, sighing as he did. The others had left when it appeared the party was a bust, leaving only Isabela, Fenris and Aveline behind. The latter only there because it was where she worked.

“She could have sent word to us,” Aveline said. “If she knew the party was canceled or delayed. I’ve better things to do than stand around waiting for her.”

“Right,” Isabela said. “There might be someone breaking a law somewhere with no one to beat them about the head.”

“Shut it,” Aveline said, absently, and not unkindly. “I wonder where she’s gotten to.”

Fenris was wandering the ballroom aimlessly, and from the corner of her eye, Isabela saw him crouch down. He came over to her, slowly, his expression confused and a bit concerned. There was a small bolt of fear that worked up her spine, but she kept herself still and patient as Fenris held out the bit of cloth that he’d found.

“Isn’t this Hawke’s?” He asked.

Sure enough, it was the little bit of cloth Lucasta wore tied around her wrist. Before Isabela could so much as comment, Aveline snatched the fabric from her and studied it. “Where did you find this?” She asked, and Fenris pointed towards the far wall, where statues of previous Viscount’s towered to the ceiling.

“Perhaps she left it behind when she returned home,” Fenris said, his doubtful voice convincing neither of them. “She might not have realized---”

“The carpet here is threadbare,” Aveline said, kicking her boot at the balding carpet. “Either someone walks by this corner often---”

“Or there’s something hidden there,” Isabela said, walking to where Aveline stood. It took several minutes of fumbling, dragging their hands along the wall and kicking their feet along the baseboard, before they were rewarded with a satisfying click and the wall first sunk in and then pushed upwards.

A tunnel went down into the dark.

“Only with Hawke does a party turn into a kidnapping,” Aveline sighed.

****

The woman stood outside of her cell with her dark eyes looking wicked in the low lantern light. Lucasta wanted to say something witty, to fall back on her usually limitless humor and sarcasm, but she found nothing but dread. It sat heavy and low in her stomach, churning uneasily.

“I listened to him for years,” the woman said, her voice low and soft, as though she were having a perfectly normal conversation and wasn’t speaking to a woman through a rusted cell door. “He always spoke about her. How much he loved her, how desperately he missed her, how he would do anything to have her back. His loyalty was astounding, even when she was cold and dead.”

“Yeah, he was a peach,” Lucasta said.

“All he wanted was to see her again,” she continued. “To hold her in his arms and tell her he loved her. That’s all any of us want.”

Lucasta pitied her. She sounded like she had believed Quentin’s lies, like she’d devoted so much of her life to the monster -- and he hadn’t spared a thought of her beyond the assistance she had provided him. No, she had been nothing but a tool to be used. He had held the same care for Gascard, she guessed.

And for her mother.

“What’s your name?” Lucasta asked. The question must have caught the woman off guard, because she started, blinking against the dimness.

“S-Sara,” she answered.

“Sara,” Lucasta said. “You don’t want to do this, do you? You don’t want to keep me--” She thought of Sebastian, and amended, “Us here, do you?”

Sara’s lips trembled. Of course she didn’t. Lucasta could see in her eyes that she didn’t want to hurt them. What she wanted was for Quentin to return, and for things to be what they once had. She had probably loved the monster, for some reason or another, and he had probably promised her the moon, if she would only do what he wished.

Her hatred for the man only deepened, becoming darker and more twisted. Lucasta wished she could see him again, just so she could drive her blade into his throat.

“I have to,” Sara whispered. “I have to. There’s no other way.”

“What do you plan on doing with us?” Lucasta asked. “You’re not like he was, are you? You’re not the same as he was. He killed my mother, Sara, and for no other reason than she looked like someone he loved. My mother is gone because he couldn’t let go.”

“Death is only the beginning,” Sara protested, weakly.

“It’s the end!” Lucasta shouted. She pulled at her restraint, trying to get closer to the woman. Grief and rage consumed her, and for a moment she was not quite human; just a seething mass of sadness and loss and anger. “It’s the end of _everything_! My mother is dead and there’s nothing that will ever bring her back and I pray to the Maker there is a place where souls like Quentin’s go. I pray to the Maker he is in agony, and he suffers forever.”

Sara turned away from her. Lucasta heard the tears in her voice, but she didn’t give a damn. “We’ll be back for you soon,” Sara said. “Perhaps you’ll find out if such a place exists.”

Lucasta listened to her heels echo down the hall, before she dropped her head back and sighed out a quiet, “Damn,” under her breath.

“Lucasta,” Sebastian said. There was so much warmth in his voice that she wanted to gravitate towards him. She was so cold, cold from the stone behind her back, and from her fading adrenaline.

“I’m not in the mood to chat right now,” Lucasta said. “Maybe you can holler for one of blood mages, they seem like a social group.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. He had no reason to apologize to her, yet he did, with so more sincerity than she’d ever heard. “For everything.”

“You didn’t set up this ambush and kidnapping did you?” Lucasta asked. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

He fell silent, but she could tell, even from such a distance, that he wanted to reach out to her.

Lucasta would have welcomed a hand to hold in the dark.

****

Isabela nearly gave up and turned around when they finally reached the end of the tunnel. A wooden door barred their way, set against the stone awkwardly. Aveline drew back to slam her shoulder against the door -- like she was a personal battering ram, but Isabela stepped in front of her and kneeled down to examine the lock.

“I’m not sure,” Isabela said. “But it seems like kicking down a door in a tunnel most likely filled with kidnappers isn’t the brightest thing to do.”

“Enough attitude,” Aveline bit. “Can you do anything about the bloody lock?”

“I might be able to if you’d stop fussing at me,” Isabela muttered. “You grumpy bi---”

“Stop it,” Fenris said. “The both of you are going to get us caught with your constant bickering.”

He hardly looked imposing in his tailored suit and the small dagger gripped in his hand, but Isabela didn’t feel much like ribbing him. Lucasta was somewhere beyond the door, most likely in great danger, and her kidnappers had done their damndest to keep their little enclave hidden.

“I’ve almost got it,” Isabela said. “Just a few more--- _Blast it_. I lost a pick.”

“I thought you were supposed to be some kind of expert,” Aveline said.

“Some kind, sure,” Isabela said, grabbing another lockpick from the kit unrolled beside her and trying again. “I’m a pirate, love. Not much use for lockpicking when you steal everything you have.”

“Perhaps Aveline was right in wanting to break the door down,” Fenris said. “We don’t really have the time to---”

Again, like the wall that had impeded them, there was a very satisfying _click_ as the door unlocked. Isabela looked at him over her shoulder with her brows lifted.

“You were saying?” She asked.

****

Somehow, Lucasta slept. With no dark magic to direct her, her dreams were not nearly so lucid or terrifying. Instead, she dreamed of home, of Lothering, across the sea and in what seemed another world. She dreamed of Bethany, pulling at mother’s skirts, small and shy. Of Carver, with a colander helmet on his head and a pillow shield and a gap between his front teeth.

She dreamed of father. Perhaps he hadn't been the kindest man, or the most affectionate, but he had taught her what she'd needed to know to survive, and he had done more than love her; he had respected her, as a person, not just his daughter. Lucasta dreamed that they were all together, in the little home back in Lothering, their possessions meager and their wealth nonexistent; but they had been _happy_ there.

They had been _together_.

More than anything, though, Lucasta dreamed of Leandra. Of her smile and her laugh, the way she had sat by the window in the parlor and looked out at the stars. She had always been a dreamer, Lucasta remembered Malcolm telling her. Always with her head in the clouds and her heart lost somewhere in between Kirkwall and Lothering. Leandra had cherished the home they had made together, and the family they had raised; but she had always longed for the life she had left behind, for something grander than farm life.

Somewhere, outside of her dreams, she heard a commotion, but the dream was where she wanted to be. The dream was where she was safe, where she was _home_.

The dream was where Leandra lived, and where she touched her lips to Lucasta’s brow. No stench of death clouded the air between them, and there was no shroud over her face. Somewhere, someone called her name, but Lucasta clung desperately to the dream.

For all her talk, for all her assurances that she was fine, that she was moving on and working through and doing what needed to be done, Lucasta was pitifully and woefully small and _hurt_.

And she clung to her mother.

****

When her eyes fluttered open, Lucasta expected to be greeted by Sara. But it was Isabela leaning over her, golden eyes soft and lovely, warm hands stroking her face. Apparently there were tears there, because Isabela swept her thumbs over her cheeks and whispered to her.

There were no tears on Isabela’s cheeks; but she was streaked with blood.

“Did you kill them?” Lucasta asked. Her voice was rough, more a croak than a whisper, and she winced at the dryness of her throat.

“Not all,” Isabela said. “Most fled.”

“A woman,” Lucasta said. “She was about my height, with dark hair and---”

“There was only one woman,” Aveline said, from behind Isabela. Lucasta looked up at her, and the softness of her eyes soothed her. “She fled.”

Lucasta was surprised to find relief wash through her. Perhaps it was foolish of her -- after all, the woman had kidnapped her and chained her up in a dank, filthy cell -- but she still pitied her for the misguided trust she had placed in Quentin.

Sebastian came into view, slowly, limping a bit with his arm thrown over Fenris’ shoulders. Fenris, despite his size, seemed to hold him up with little trouble. “Glad to see you’re in one piece,” Fenris said. “Both of you.”

“The Grand Cleric will never believe this,” Sebastian said, chuckling weakly. “Not in a million years.”

“What do you suppose they wanted?” Isabela asked.

Lucasta had a feeling she knew, but it was better to be gone from the place before the ones who had fled found their courage renewed and returned.

****

The tunnel that returned them to the Keep was long, and Sebastian had been injured during his scuffle with Quentin’s followers. He limped along slowly, and Lucasta took Fenris’ place in supporting him when they were halfway to the surface. Fenris took the rear, keeping an eye out behind them as they moved.

“They meant to kill us,” Sebastian said. “Or you, most likely. They never expected that I would be there.”

“Yeah,” Lucasta agreed. “I’m not sure why they didn’t just kill me and get it over with, though.”

“Because they needed to prepare,” Sebastian said. “They didn’t only wish to kill you, Hawke, they wished to _sacrifice_ you. No doubt they believed that your lifeforce would be enough to return that monster they followed to them.”

Lucasta shivered. She told herself it was the chill of the place.

Vengeance never ended, she realized. No matter what crime someone committed, there was always someone affected when they died. There was always someone who mourned them, who vowed that they would do whatever it took to get justice. The line between them was so slight, so imperceptible, that Lucasta wondered if there was truly a difference at all.

Look where vengeance, where justice, had gotten Sebastian. Yes, he had avenged his family, but what good had that done? He still remained, torn between two homes, bitterly unsure of who he was or where he belonged. And look, too, where it had gotten Anders; hiding in the bowels of the city with his hands healing and his heart burning, with nothing to keep him warm but the promise of vengeance that might never come.

Quentin deserved to die, Lucasta had no doubt of that. But where would the death end? Would it end with him, or would Sara return to make sure that it ended with Lucasta?


	4. The Clean Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their ordeal, Sebastian makes sure to check up on Lucasta to see that she's not too shaken up by what happened.

A few nights after they escaped their kidnappers, Sebastian came to her. His intention, Lucasta assumed, was to check on her and make sure she was alright, but he wouldn’t come right out and say so. He walked to the armchair by the fireplace, still with a slight limp, and took a seat with a heavy sigh, scratching Pumpkin behind the ear when he came over and sat, panting, beside him.

Lucasta hated that he felt sorry for her. It was patently obvious that he was worried for her, that he believed she had been shaken up by what had happened. Truthfully, it had rocked her, but what bothered her more than anything was that she hadn’t seen it for the obvious con that it was. She had been raised with a sharp eye and a keen intellect -- and with the wherewithal to tell when she was being conned. After all, Malcolm had been a con artist, a deceiver by trade, and he had taught her well.

Perhaps she should have filed a complaint with the Viscount’s office that his authority had been misused and no one in his staff had been able to keep a cabal of blood mages from infiltrating and endangering the lives of Kirkwall civilians. No doubt Bran would turn red and swear and fume -- the image of that was almost enough to make her do it, but Lucasta just wanted to put it behind her. If the life of their Viscount wasn’t worth enough of their time and attention to ensure their Keep was safe, what business was it of hers?

If Sebastian were angry, that would be better. If he’d come to spit and curse the mages that had taken them, Lucasta would happily gripe with him. But no, his eyes were soft, his mouth softer when he spoke her name and called her attention to him.

“It’s alright,” he said. “To miss your mother.”

The words hit her like a sledgehammer in the center of her chest. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe, and she covered this up by looking away from him and uttering a short, sharp laugh. Sharp enough to slice at him, she hoped, but when she flicked her eyes back Sebastian was sitting there rather comfortably, still scratching behind Pumpkin’s ears and watching her.

If humor failed her, anger would serve. Lucasta wanted to spit acid at him, to tell him to keep his pity and his worry and his soft words to himself. To tell him that he would never know what she felt, that he had never had his heart carved out and torn from his body.

But she bit her lips.

Because he _did_ know how she felt.

And his heart _had_ been torn from him cruelly. He hadn’t seen his mother in fifteen years, hadn’t spoken to her, heard her voice or felt her lips on his forehead or had the finality of holding her in his arms as her life slipped away. Sebastian had been forced to hear of her death -- of the death of his entire family -- through a missive; most likely very stiff and formal, telling him that his parents and his brothers were dead, and he was needed.

No one had taken his hand, Lucasta realized. Sebastian had sat alone with loss and grief and loneliness and no one had come to him.

The way he came to her.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Lucasta said. No surprise there, of course. When did she ever want to talk about the things that hurt her? It was better, she told herself, to focus on what she could be doing instead of dwelling on what couldn’t be changed. But she knew that it wasn’t better, it was avoidance, and it was why she had clung so desperately to the dream of Leandra warm and whole and safe.

Anyone else might have kept pushing her, believing it was best for her, but Sebastian only nodded. “Alright,” he said. “If you’re ever ready, you know where to find me.” He moved to stand, and Lucasta stopped him with a soft, “wait”, making Sebastian raise a brow as he settled back into the chair.

“You still have a limp,” Lucasta said. “Have you seen anyone about it?”

“Anders told me that there was nothing he could do,” Sebastian said. “He said it was best to rest and let it heal on its own. It’s nothing, really. Just a slight twinge in the muscle.”

Lucasta wasn’t sure how else to let him know she was worried about him, that she cared what happened to him; and perhaps that she was sorry he had been dragged into the mess to begin with.

“I’m sorry you were there,” she said. “And that I was dumb. I shouldn’t have been so dumb, really. I should’ve known it was a trap.”

“You wanted to believe that it wasn’t,” Sebastian said. “It was nice thinking that Viscount wanted to honor you that way. You do deserve it, Hawke.”

“Oh, well,” Lucasta said. “Obviously I do. But I should have known better than to believe someone like the Viscount would realize that.”

Pumpkin whined when Sebastian stood and stopped his deep scratch behind the mabari’s ear. Sebastian smiled at the dog affectionately, but only gave him a brief pat between the eyes before moving towards the door.

“I hope you’ll come see me soon,” Sebastian said, as he opened the door to leave and a rush of cool wind stirred his hair and made him shiver. “It can be rather dull there. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.” He smiled, and looked down at her. “I think we’ve both had about all the excitement we need for a while.”

“You mean you _don’t_ like being kidnapped?” Lucasta asked, matching his crooked smile. “You royal types are hard to impress.”

“Perhaps,” Sebastian said. He cupped her chin in his fingers and softened his smile. “But not impossible.”

****

For the next few weeks, it was mind-numbingly uneventful. Lucasta was forced to wait in her estate for correspondence to arrive, or for one of her friends to come knocking. She visited Varric for any information he had about what was going on around Kirkwall, but the dwarf could only shrug as he shuffled his cards.

“Don’t have anything for you, Hawke,” he said. “Guess you’ll have to create your own excitement.”

She had joked with Sebastian about excitement and adventure, but without the constant crisis in the city to occupy her thoughts, they turned down some rather unsavory avenues. Each night she sat in front of the fire with Pumpkin sleeping at her feet and thought of how Leandra had stared up at the window set high into the wall, with the sunlight laying over her face; how she had smiled and finally been home.

The thoughts were excruciating. And they were only made worse when Bodahn bought her a letter, written in a familiar script, by a familiar hand. There was no return address, but she saw her sister’s name scrawled across the front in fancy, sweeping strokes.

For a few days, she refused to open it, to see the accusations that no doubt would glare at her from the page. Bethany carried resentment towards her for what had happened in the Deep Roads, and Lucasta couldn’t blame her for that; but it was difficult to see Bethany struggling and hurting with no way to reach out and help her. 

The the thought of Bethany, all alone out there with no one to tell her it would be alright, with no one to hold her hand and take care of her, the way Lucasta always had, hurt her deeply. 

Leandra wouldn’t have wanted there to be such a divide between them, and when the house was still and silent -- Bodahn and Orana and Sandal asleep in the rooms downstairs -- Lucasta sat down at her desk and opened Bethany’s letter.

Hawke,

I’ve heard the news. Mother is gone. I hope that she wasn’t alone when she died. That might sound cruel, that I hope you were with her, but you were always a comfort to her, and she didn’t deserve to die alone.

Stroud cannot spare my absence, so I must remain here. They helped me hold a memorial for mother, and that is more than I expected.

I hope this letter finds you well, despite what has passed between us. Mother would not have wanted me to carry so much bitterness in my heart; yet I have not added the return address to this letter. Some wounds are beyond healing, I’m sorry.

I’m sure you understand.

\-- Bethany

What could Lucasta do? She had no way to answer the letter, per Bethany’s wishes, and she couldn’t very well go out and find her. Even if she had the previous address Bethany had written from, that didn’t mean she was still there. Wardens were wanderers, and their Keeps were more for their equipment and important documents than themselves.

All she could do was sit there with Bethany’s letter and stare at the words on the paper until they doubled and trebled with her tears.

****

When she visited the Keep -- more as a way to irritate Aveline than engage with Bran or the Viscount -- she was stopped by Saemus as she headed for the barracks. He was flushed, hair usually neatly styled hair unwound around his face. Lucasta thought he must have been waiting for her, judging by the desperate look in his eyes.

She followed him into one of the side rooms, where he closed the door and latched it firmly. To say that he was harried was an understatement -- she hadn’t seen him in such a state since the day at the Coast where she’d saved him, and he’d stood over the body of Ashaad, with more than grief over losing a friend wrecking him.

“My father,” he blustered, red-faced, his hands fisted at his sides. Lucasta remembered how she’d felt when she’d been Saemus’ age; like the world was hers and everyone who tried to slow her down didn’t understand what she was feeling. Her sympathy was with Saemus, though she supposed Marlowe deserved a bit as well, for having to deal with the boy’s flights of fancy. “My father intends to keep me locked away like some _child_.”

That didn’t surprise her. The last time Saemus had run off, a group of mercenaries had ended up dead around him -- with a little help from Lucasta, of course. His father had his reputation to think about, as well as his power and status -- any sign of weakness and he would be tossed from the throne with the whole of Kirkwall screaming for his head; Lucasta sympathized with Saemus, of course, but she could see where Dumar was coming from. Petrice had done all she could to fan the flames of war in Kirkwall, and he was in a precarious spot.

Still, Saemus had the right to live his life the way he wanted. She had always prized freedom and independence above all things.

“You want to run,” Lucasta said. She didn’t try to talk him out of it, but neither did she lend her outright support. What she wanted was to gauge his attitudes, to see where his mind and heart had settled.

“I don’t _want_ to run,” Saemus said. “I want...”

He hesitated. She understood. It was never easy to reveal yourself, to make yourself vulnerable, to allow someone else to pick you apart, piece by painful piece. Still, Saemus trusted her, perhaps more than most, and he said, softly; “I want my father to care more for me than he does himself.”

That hurt her heart, more than she wanted to admit. Perhaps because it hit too close to home.

“You think he doesn’t?” Lucasta asked. “I mean, if he didn’t care about you, he would’ve just shipped you off somewhere and you wouldn’t be a pain in the ass for him. That’s what I would’ve done.”

She was teasing, and Saemus, thankfully, knew that. He smiled, and then sighed, leaning his head back against the latched door behind him. “You’ve got a way with words, Hawke.”

“Be patient,” Lucasta said, advice that she had never been able to follow, herself. “It’ll work itself out.”

If she’d known then how wrong she was, she would have told Saemus to run. To take whatever possessions he could carry and let Kirkwall be nothing but the dust on his boots.

But of course she didn’t know.

And of course he didn’t run.

****

Sebastian came to her estate a few weeks after his earlier visit, bringing with him a bag of freshly baked cookies. Lucasta opened the bag and smelled the treats, smiling as she sealed it up and handed it to Bodahn, who carried it into the kitchen. “I didn’t know the Chantry was in the business of baking cookies,” Lucasta teased. “Is there anything you _don’t_ do for people?”

His smile, which usually stayed far from his eyes, lit them up. “I made these myself,” he said. “I’m quite the baker, or didn’t you know? I don’t spend all of my time on my knees.”

“That would be painful,” Lucasta said, standing aside to let him inside. Last time, he had headed straight for the armchair by the fire, but this time Sebastian stood in the foyer with his hands wringing nervously. He tried to keep her from seeing, but Lucasta was too perceptive, and asked him if something was bothering him.

“Not overmuch, no,” Sebastian said. His eyes suggested otherwise; considering they never stopped roaming the room, looking everywhere but her face. “I only... I’ve only just come to tell you that---” He sighed, taking a seat on the bench that ran the length of the hall. A month earlier, he had sat in the same spot, with his hair softly curled against his temples, dressed up for a party that had never existed.

Well, everything eventually came around to the place it had started. Lucasta had always known that.

“I told you some time ago that the Grand Cleric is rather cross with me,” Sebastian said. “And I never... elaborated on that.”

“You didn’t need to,” Lucasta said. “I know why she’s steamed. You keep waffling about this whole Prince of Starkhaven, Brother in the Chantry business. She doesn’t think you’re serious about your vows, or that you know what you want.”

“That is part of it,” Sebastian said. He looked down at his shoes, which -- though they were rather shiny and attractive -- only meant that he didn’t want to look at her. Or that he _couldn’t_. “The other part is that she does not approve of the... interest I have taken in you.”

Lucasta waited. She wanted to make a quip, but she thought better of it; if Sebastian wanted to tell her something, she would rather he do it with as little self-consciousness as possible.

“The Grand Cleric warned me that you are dangerous,” he said, rather sheepishly. “And, well, I can hardly argue. Look what happened.”

“That’s not my fault,” Lucasta said. “I’m not really responsible for deranged blood mages, am I?”

“No,” Sebastian said. “Of course you’re not. But the fact remains that there is death all around you.”

Dull heat pulsed in her chest. “Like my mother,” she said. The words came like chips of ice, and she hoped he felt the chill of them. Instead of shrinking away, Sebastian finally lifted his gaze to her, and his eyes were warm enough to melt the frost from her tongue. “No,” he said. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“Then why don’t you _tell me_ what you mean,” Lucasta snapped. “I’m not really in the mood to play games with you.”

“Nor I with you,” Sebastian said. He stood and moved to her, his gait no longer dragging or limping. No, he walked with assurance and confidence, and when he reached her he cupped her face in his hands and looked down into her eyes without a hint of the doubt that usually disturbed his stare. “The Grand Cleric told me that I should not follow you, that to do so would be to invite disaster. She warned me that it would cause me undue pain, but I--- I cannot help myself.”

“Sebastian,” Lucasta said. There was no repartee at her disposal; her rapier wit was, for once, sheathed, and all she could do was lay her hands over his and look up at him. He leaned down, close to her, his breath ghosting over her lips, and Lucasta closed her eyes.

Sebastian rested his brow to hers. “I care for you, Hawke,” he whispered. Finding the name too impersonal, he amended, “ _Lucasta_.”

Lucasta laughed. Not maliciously, though she felt Sebastian flinch all the same. When her hands stroked over his knuckles, he relaxed. “I care for you too, Sebastian,” Lucasta said. “I’m just sorry you had to upset Her Grace. I’m not surprised she doesn’t care for me. I’m a very corrupting influence.”

“ _Lucasta_ ,” Sebastian warned, though the corner of his mouth lifted with a smile.

“Well, it’s true,” Lucasta laughed. “She has every reason to hate me.”

“I never said she hated you,” Sebastian said. “Only that she was concerned for me. It’s not you so much as the danger you seem to find yourself in.”

“And you... what?” Lucasta asked. “You find that exciting?”

She could tell by the glint in his eye that he did, and that he had lied to her when he said they had both had enough excitement to last them for a while. Sebastian craved excitement and danger and adventure. The Chantry soothed his soul, but it would never quite take the fire from him. That was fine; good, in fact. Lucasta had a fire of her own, and if he wanted to have an adventure, his best bet would be to stick close to her.

“Maybe,” Sebastian said. “Or maybe I find _you_ exciting.”

He shifted, a little flushed, his hands moving from her face to tangle their fingers together. “You are very important to me,” Sebastian whispered. “I want you to understand just how much I value your friendship.”

“You’re getting soft on me,” Lucasta teased. “I expected better from you.”

Sebastian didn’t smile, and Lucasta let her own fall when the silence stretched between them and Sebastian’s thumbs began to stroke gently over her knuckles. 

Intimacy was a funny thing, Lucasta mused. There were so many ways to be close to someone, to let them slide beneath bone and into your blood. Neither she nor Sebastian had any desire for sexual intimacy, but closeness, yes; they both desired that. They both desired their hands to be together and their foreheads to touch gently and their paths to join into one.

“Would you make me a promise?” Lucasta asked. 

“Anything,” Sebastian said. 

“Promise me that no matter what happens, you won’t... There won’t come a time where you leave me here.” Lucasta hated the desperation in her voice, but when she thought of all that she had lost, of all that had happened with her father, with Carver, with Leandra, with Bethany... She couldn’t seem to bear letting someone find their way into her heart only for them to leave behind a hole that could never be filled.

“I promise that I will never leave you,” Sebastian whispered. 

“Good,” Lucasta teased. “I’d hate to have to track you down and kick your butt.”

Sebastian squeezed her hands gently. His nose nudged hers, and what might have been far too intimate a gesture from most, was welcomed from him. “You honor me,” he said. “I am lucky just to be near to you, Lucasta. I’ve no desire beyond making you happy.”

Slowly, Lucasta wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her face against the center of his chest. His heart beat slow and steady, and it soothed her. For once, she felt safe, safer than she had since she had left their little house in Lothering and run for the mountains. The idea that someone’s arms could be such a comfort to her was a little jarring, but she didn’t let it keep her from enjoying Sebastian’s embrace.

“Things will be okay, now,” Sebastian promised her, kissing the part of her hair gently. “I promise you.”

If he’d known how wrong he was, he might have told her to run. To leave the estate to the looters and let Kirkwall be nothing but a memory.

But of course he didn’t know.

And of course she didn’t run.


	5. The Last Straw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the years following Leandra's death, Lucasta has settled into her role as Champion; but someone from her past is determined to make sure her success isn't long-lived.

Chapter Five: The Last Straw

Saemus kneeled in the middle of the floor, and Lucasta eased herself down beside him. When she touched his shoulder, she knew from the stiffness of him that he was dead. Instead of pulling back, she leaned in nearer, looking at the pallor of his skin, the way his lashes rested heavy on his cheeks, the way his lips had parted over his final breath.

When Petrice spoke, Lucasta saw red. Saemus had reminded her so much of Carver, with his idealism and his dreaming and his stubbornness; and now, like the little brother she had chased around the farm, he was dead. Heart stilled forever over politics and Petrice’s perverse faith. 

_He should have run_ , Lucasta though, as she stood from Saemus’ body and looked down into Petrice’s face over the railing. _I should have made him run._

There was nothing to be done for it now. Except for Petrice to pay for her underhanded and cruel games.

“Earn your reward in this life and the next,” Petrice said, her voice echoing off of the high Chantry walls. Lucasta slipped the dagger from its sheath, curling her fingers around the hilt tightly. Even knowing that it couldn’t be changed, she spared one last look at Saemus’ body, and tried desperately not to think of Carver on the mountain path, bloody and broken, as Leandra sobbed over him.

She had failed him, had failed both of them, but all she could do was steel herself and do her best to make Saemus’ death not be in vain.

****

When the arrow pierced her heart, Lucasta felt nothing but glee. Petrice had done nothing but hurt the people she had sworn to counsel and protect, and for that, she had deserved nothing less than a quick and far too merciful death.

Her death did nothing to return Saemus to the world, but with the end of her, there came a bit of peace.

****

“At least it can’t get any worse,” Lucasta said, as Dumar cradled Saemus in his arms. She didn’t know why she said it, or what she hoped her glibness might accomplish, but the words were past her lips before she could stop herself. “Today, anyway. It’s pretty late.”

Of course he didn’t laugh. Neither did she. There was nothing funny there. Only a dead boy and his father crying over him.

There were too many sharp edges to her mind that night; too many dark thoughts drifting back across the ocean, to the place where her brother had died, where her family had been permanently fractured.

Lucasta left him to his quiet suffering, her hands clenched at her sides.

****

Everything after that was a blur to her. Isabela leaving with the tome, meeting the Knight Commander and First Enchanter, pushing forward into the Keep, Isabela returning, her confrontation with the Arishok...

The only moment that resonated with her, clearly, was when she saw Bethany, and the conversation that followed. She wanted to reach out to her sister, to bring her close and hold her and tell her she was sorry, that she should have done more for her, more for mother, more for Carver...

Instead, Lucasta had made bad jokes, and they had parted ways with nothing changed. 

Everything else might as well have been a dream.

When she stood, with people cheering and shouting her name in triumph, when Meredith told her that she had saved Kirkwall, she knew that she had accomplished something grand, and perhaps something that no one else would have been capable of; but as it was, she only wished she had been able to stop things before they had gotten so terribly out of hand.

Saemus dead, Petrice dead, the Arishok dead. It seemed that death was all around her, as the Grand Cleric had warned Sebastian. How could she expect him to throw his lot in with her when she was so obviously cursed by bad luck or just bad decision making?

It wasn’t a lack of self confidence -- which Lucasta had plenty of -- but she couldn’t look around and tell herself that there was no danger involved in being close to her.

She didn’t want him getting hurt.

 

****

When Lucasta told him that she was worried for his safety, she could sense that Sebastian was being kind in letting her speak when he very clearly wanted to interrupt. When she was through, he took her hands, not shy about staring into her eyes as he had been before.

“There is danger everywhere,” he said. “You are not some beacon for it, Lucasta. If there is more death around you than others, it is only because you place yourself in the center of it all by being everyone’s Champion.” He smiled, knowing that the title that had been placed upon her pleased her very much, if not the weight and responsibility of it. “Protecting those who cannot protect themselves is not something you should feel badly about,” he continued. “You are doing the Maker’s work, and I will not sit idly by while those that would seek to cause harm to you, or anyone else, are allowed to remain free.”

“Wow,” Lucasta murmured. “That is the most self-righteous thing I’ve ever heard. You’re a savior of the weak now, are you?”

He smiled, tilting her chin up and gently touching her lip with the heel of his thumb. “Perhaps not,” he said. “But I love you, Lucasta. I will not stand by and let you shoulder every burden.”

_I love you, Lucasta_.

Only a handful of people had ever said those words to her, and the ones who had, not quite with the same emotion behind them. Leandra had whispered the words as she tucked her into bed, touching her lips to her forehead. Malcolm had said them, though rarely, usually with a laugh as she did something to amuse him. The twins had spoken them, though Carver had only done so when he’d been very small, and after that, he would sooner admit to loving a darkspawn. Bethany, though...

Before she had become a Warden, she had spoken the words often, with her sweet smile and warm eyes. Now that so much time and distance and hurt was between them... Lucasta wondered if the last time Bethany had spoken the words truly was _the last time_.

Sebastian, though, said the words almost absently, as though his love for her was so familiar, so intrinsic to him, that he didn’t even spare it a second thought. And _that_ was enough to make her curl her fingers, softly, around his wrist, and lean her head against his shoulder.

“Your side can be as dangerous as the Deep Roads,” Sebastian whispered. “I will never stray from it. I promise you.”

There were enough broken promises in the world, Lucasta thought. But for some reason, she trusted him. If only because he held her close and promised her again.

****

As the months passed, and Lucasta found herself getting acquainted with her new title and added responsibilities, she was given ample opportunity to visit Aveline in the Keep; especially considering she had to alert her whenever there was any sign of trouble that would impact the city.

As important as her visits were, she mostly hung around to tease Aveline, though the subject of her marriage rarely came up. Lucasta didn’t care to hear about how her honeymoon with the bushy browed man had gone, and Aveline didn’t care to volunteer the information. If it was a landmine at all between them, it was easily evaded. For once, Lucasta was happy with Aveline was all business.

“First Enchanter Orsino wants me to look into some of his mages that are wandering off late at night,” Lucasta said, leaning against Aveline’s desk on her elbows. “He said I should check Hightown, but I’m not sure I want to just walk into another group of blood mages, if I can help it. I mean I’m not _afraid_ or anything, but---”

“What do you want me to do?” Aveline asked. Sometimes Lucasta wondered if her exasperation with her was genuine, or only an act. She caught a little smile at the corner of her lips, and decided it was the second option. “I’m busy, Hawke.”

“Too busy to save Kirkwall and its citizens from a dangerous cabal of blood mages?” Lucasta asked. “I’m shocked at you, Aveline. Here I thought you held Kirkwall’s safety paramount above everything else, but I guess---”

“Alright,” Aveline interrupted. “Just tell me what you need.”

“I need to know if you’ve heard anything about this,” Lucasta said. “I know your guardsmen spend a lot of their time at the tavern and brothel instead of working, but I figured there must be one or two of them who do their jobs right.”

Aveline decided to let the little dig go unanswered, pushing away from her desk and standing to stride to the far wall, where her reports were neatly tucked into a cabinet. Flipping through them for a few minutes, Aveline pulled out a thick folder and handed it to Lucasta.

“This is everything my people have found about any unsanctioned mages,” Aveline said. “You really should have gone to the Knight Commander for this, Hawke.”

“Right,” Lucasta snorted. “‘Knight Commander, the First Enchanter thinks some of his mages might be practicing blood magic, have you heard any news?’”

“Alright,” Aveline said. “Good point.”

 

****

Lucasta had been prepared to go on her own, but of course Sebastian and Isabela were waiting when she left her estate at dusk. If they wanted to risk their lives on some little mission for Orsino, who was she to dissuade them? After all, if it turned out there was a gathering of blood mages, she would need the assistance.

“Stay out of sight if you can,” Lucasta cautioned, as they moved through the city towards the Hightown Estates. She wondered if she should have approached Fenris about any unusual activity around his home, but of course if he’d suspected blood mages had been lurking anywhere near him, he would have killed them all before she even had a chance to question them. “Better to eavesdrop, find out what they’ve got planned.”

“The First Enchanter is a fool if he believes they’re innocent,” Sebastian said. “Who gathers this late at night to do anything _good_?”

“We do,” Isabela said, chuckling when Sebastian huffed.

Hightown was never _safe_ , but at least it proved safer than Lowtown as they neared where the meeting was supposed to be taking place. Pressing near the wall, close to the De Launcet estate, Lucasta caught her name, in a hushed voice. Peeking around the corner, she saw a group of mages -- seven or eight of them, though it was difficult to count them as they huddled together -- leaned close together and whispering.

_So much for eavesdropping_ , she thought, but just as she was about to round the corner and make her presence known, she saw that there were templars gathered with them, their armor glinting in the moonlight as they huddled with the people who were supposed to be their charges, not their co-conspirators.

“Aww, look at that,” Isabela said. “They’re cooperating.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lucasta whispered.

“You’re so negative,” Isabela whispered back. “Look at them, being friends. It’s heartwarming.”

“The First Enchanter was right to be suspicious,” Sebastian said. “But this is worse than even he imagined.”

What would Meredith do with this information? Would she put them all to the blade, mage and templar alike, and damn the dark whispers that swirled around her? Or would she cast out templar and brand the mages as maleficarum, not even deserving of death? Would she make them tranquil, just for gathering in the night and bowing their heads together in conversation?

The thought sent a shiver up her spine.

“We still don’t know what they’re up to,” Lucasta said. “For all we know they’re swapping recipes for kidney pie.”

“Or talking about their knickers,” Isabela said. “Me and Fenris can get lost in conversation for _hours_ talking about our knickers.”

Of course, that was the perfect time for one of the mages to spot them, and shout a warning to the others. Lucasta had hoped they could be brought back to the Gallows without incident -- and not a word would be said to Meredith about what had happened, but it seemed that nothing could ever be so simple.

****

_...will not tell you again: it's not safe to bring new recruits to our meetings. Meredith has eyes everywhere. Bring anyone who claims to be against her to Gardibali's Warehouse at night. We must ensure their loyalty, lest Meredith discover us before we are ready to confront her..._

_\--S._

Lucasta read the note three times before crumpling it up and throwing it to the ground. Isabela clucked her tongue and commented about the Champion of Kirkwall “littering”, but Lucasta couldn’t hear her over the thudding of blood through her ears. There was something going on, but she honestly didn’t know what it could be.

Why would templars work with mages? Aside from Ser Thrask, she had never met a templar who seemed at all concerned with the fate of the mages under their care. It made no sense that a templar would risk not only their shield but their lives to aid mages in some sort of desperate, half-baked plot. What good could come of it?

Not that she wasn’t sympathetic to their cause -- the cause of the mages, anyhow -- but what did they hope to achieve with such a hare-brained scheme? They seemed to be in total disarray.

“I guess we should get to the docks,” Sebastian said, sighing as he scrubbed blood from his cheek. “We’ve a party to break up.”

****

At the warehouse, when the meeting was broken up and everyone had either fled or lay dead, Lucasta advanced on Keran. He shrunk away from her when she approached, but when she did nothing but stand before him with her fists clenched, he relaxed some.

“I do not hold with kidnapping,” he said. “Not after what I went through. If I’d known that it was you, I would have stopped them.”

“Who have they taken?” Lucasta asked. Her pulse throbbed visibly at her temple, but she managed to keep her temper under control.

“Some girl they got from the Wardens,” Keran said. “They’ve taken her to the Wounded Coast, to bring you to them. I’m sorry, Hawke, if I’d known---”

“Oh,” Lucasta said, dully. She thought of something witty to say, and didn’t bother. Bethany needed her, and unlike the last time she’d been in trouble, Lucasta wouldn’t fail her.

****

Grace had one thing right; the time for talking was done. The moment she threatened Bethany’s life, she had nothing more to say to her. She’d believed her when she’d promised she had no dealings with demons, that she hadn’t resorted to the perverse practice of blood magic; another deceit that Lucasta found rather annoying. How was everyone getting so much over on her?

Decimus had sealed his fate when he’d sacrificed innocent people to fuel his blood magic; and Grace sealed hers when Bethany’s name dropped from her mouth like poison. Lucasta never even thought twice, or hesitated. When she was dead, she sighed out through her teeth, not even bothering to sheathe her blade. She dropped it to the sand and moved to where Bethany lay.

“I’m sorry,” Alain said. “Grace used blood magic to hold her, it’s the only thing that can free her now.” He slit his palm, wincing as the magic flowed and whatever invisible chains that held Bethany were snapped.

She woke slowly, eyes fluttering, and pushed herself up from the sand. Lucasta gripped her elbow, and when Bethany’s eyes found her, they weren’t hard or resentful, but wide and frightened. Finally, there was the girl who had tugged her skirts in Lothering and chased after her wanting to play with her. There was the girl who had smiled, with such fragility, their first year in Kirkwall, but who had been determined to change her lot in life.

So she had. It wasn’t what either of them had wanted, but it was. There was no changing it, now.

“I’m sorry,” Lucasta said. It was the first time she’d spoken the words to her sister in more than three years. The last time, she’d been with Stroud, with Kirkwall burning behind her as the Qunari had been attacking. And she had looked at Lucasta wearily, exhausted of fighting, exhausted of moving forward, exhausted of her apologies.

“Blighted mess I’ve gotten myself into,” Bethany said. There was an acceptance in the words, in the small smile at the corners of her lips, in her fingers sliding through Lucasta’s. It wasn’t the same, but it was something.

It was enough.

****

“Grace didn’t write that note,” Lucasta said, as she and Sebastian walked back towards town. Isabela promised to catch up with them, but she was still at the edge of the coast, looking out over the water with a gleam in her eyes.

“What do you mean?” Sebastian asked.

“It was signed S,” Lucasta reminded him. “Someone else is out there waiting to cause trouble. Which is just _perfect_.”

“Their friends are either dead or in the hands of the templars. They’ve seen that there is no hope for their cause,” Sebastian said. “Regardless of your sympathies,” he added, a little darkly, but Lucasta ignored his disapproval at her objections to Meredith’s tactics.

“They have no where left to turn,” he finished.

****

After everything, Lucasta wanted to sleep, to dream, undisturbed. With some of the rift between her and Bethany repaired, her dreams weren’t quite so dark or twisted; but she still found herself haunted by the memory of her mother. What should have filled her with joy and warmth, instead caused her heart to shudder, her skin to crawl.

Her dreams were a slanting, shifting kaleidoscope of imagery and emotion. One moment, she was small, cradled in Leandra’s arms, and the next, she was grown, cradling her mother as her life slipped away. Such a sudden shift of emotion was exhausting and draining, and even when she awoke from the dreams, she had little energy.

Believing that she simply needed closure, of some kind, Lucasta visited Leandra’s memorial. She had suggested they make something devoted to her mother and place it in the Chantry, so that others could come and be inspired by her life; though it seemed she was the only one who ever paid attention to tiny memorial, tucked away in the corner of the Chantry, where not even the brothers and sisters roamed.

For her purposes that day, it was good that no one frequented the area. Wanting to avoid being seen -- especially by Sebastian -- Lucasta hid her face behind a hood and walked through the Chantry with her head bowed and her steps slow, careful to avoid detection.

Kneeling in front of her mother’s memorial, Lucasta kept her head low as she prayed. There was no particular canticle or verse that she recited, she only spoke what she felt, what she hoped Leandra was experiencing at the Maker’s side. When she felt wetness and heat on her face, she knew that she was crying, and she thanked the Maker that she had decided to wear her hood after all.

When she composed herself, she recited Leandra’s favorite verse from the Chant, slowly and thoughtfully, not only reciting the words but _feeling_ them, as Leandra had always instructed.

_“The one who repents, who has faith,  
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,  
She shall know true peace.”_

Lucasta turned her head up at last, and caught the portrait of her mother on the altar, with candles burning around it; flickering light and shadow moving across her face. “I’m trying,” she whispered. “I’m trying so hard, mother. But I miss you.”

It was the first time she said such a thing aloud. Not even Sebastian’s gentle reminder that it was alright to miss her mother had drawn the truth from her. She had convinced herself that there was no time to dwell on such things; she was Champion, she had duties and responsibilities and if she spent any time on her failings, on how she had let so much she loved and cherished slip through her fingers, she would drive herself mad.

But here, kneeling before the monument to Leandra, there were no pretenses, or places left for her to hide. She was pitifully small, pitifully afraid, pitifully in want of her mother. And it _was_ alright.

Lucasta cried for her, and it was alright.

 

****

In the same spot, a week later, Lucasta stood in the shadows with Sebastian. Theirs was no clandestine meeting, no heated affair that they hid in the deepest, darkest corner; no, neither of them had a desire for such a thing.

The desire that burned between them was entirely different.

Together, they made their separate paths one. Away from prying eyes and probing questions, Sebastian and Lucasta sealed their promise to stand together with a brief, soft kiss that ended with Lucasta turning her face against his throat and resting there.

“I will never forsake you,” Sebastian whispered.

From anyone else, the words might have sounded hollow, said more to ease their own mind than hers. But from Sebastian they were sincere, and Lucasta let her hand find his in the darkness.

****

Sebastian was on his knees. Many times, Lucasta had come to see him and found him there, with his hands clasped and his lips moving wordlessly in silent prayer. This time, however, he spoke his prayers, repeating them over and over until his voice was hoarse and the words became incoherent through his tears.

She wanted to move to him, but there was too much else to focus on. Like Meredith, calling for the Rite of Annulment, and Orsino, demanding she back down, demanding Lucasta stand with him.

Like Anders, sitting with his back to the commotion and chaos and death, like he had any right not to look at what he’d done.

They had never seen eye to eye, but Lucasta had never expected such a thing from him. Yes, he had written up his manifesto and passed it around like it would ever smooth over centuries of oppression and abuse and bigotry. And yes, he had gotten increasingly volatile over the last few years; but even still, she had never believed he was capable of such a thing. That he could take life with so little remorse; that he could spark a war with no thought given to the smallest and the weakest.

Or perhaps he had given it thought, and believed the ends justified the means.

“Is this what you wanted?” Lucasta asked.

“No,” Anders said. “But it’s what I’ve got. I’ve no regrets.”

When it was only the group of them, gathered around him in a loose circle, she thought she caught a flicker of apology on Anders’ face; but no, it was replaced by hardness, by someone she didn’t even recognize. In her heart, she tried to find mercy for him, but all she could seem to think of was how the Grand Cleric had reached out to her, when she’d been hurting; how she’d counseled her and given her comfort, even when her worries over Sebastian had caused strife between them.

And she thought, too, of how easily Sebastian could have been in there when Anders brought the building down. Of how easily his good heart could have been stilled forever.

There was no mercy in her.

****

“You knew him,” Lucasta whispered. Beside her, from the corner of her eye, she saw Bethany move a hand to her staff -- the slight move enough to remind her that Bethany was no longer the little girl she’d once been; she was a Warden, and she was not one to be trifled with.

“His research was far too dangerous,” Orsino said. He had backed himself into a corner, both literally and figuratively, and there was nothing he could do or say that would lessen Lucasta’s anger.

“You knew what he was capable of and you did nothing,” Lucasta whispered. She was afraid that if she spoke above that whisper, if she heard her own voice spiraling up in rage and fury, she would lose herself. Everything would become red, and she would be caught in it until time, or her heart, stopped. “You let him kill my mother.”

“Quentin owns his crimes,” Orsino said. “I had no idea he had gone so far...”

She wanted to kill him. Her fingers tightened around the hilts of her daggers, but his own desperation did him in before she could.

There was no satisfaction, not being able to look into his eyes when he died.

 

****

An eternity -- or perhaps it was only a few hours -- later, Lucasta knelt in the middle of the Gallows, bloody and beaten but alive.

The fight had been grueling, and more than once she had feared that the only end to it would be her death; but Meredith had fallen prey to her own paranoia and lust for power, much the same way Orsino had, and she had sealed her own fate.

Reflecting on the entire ordeal, she felt much as she had when she had journeyed to the Keep and battled the Arishok; there was shock, and beneath it, a dream-like feeling so pervasive it scared her a bit. Had she really killed the Knight-Commander? Had she really seen the Chantry turned to rubble? Had her knife really sunk into Anders’ back and taken his life?

Was she not just dreaming, one of her violent, surreal dreams?

Sebastian knelt beside her, unsmiling and silent. There was a pain unlike any she’d ever known, and she could feel heat and wetness on her cheek, but she was swaying with the pain and exhaustion and Sebastian caught her.

Something needled at her, beneath the trauma and exhaustion and sadness over everything that had happened. Even over the horrendous pain. Lucasta felt like she was forgetting something, something important that had slipped her mind during the chaos. But there were more important things to focus on than some little worry that most likely amounted to nothing.

What could she have forgotten that would matter more than the destruction and death around her?

If it was of any import, it didn’t matter when she slipped into darkness.

When she awoke, there was a terrifying moment where she didn’t know where she was, and it wasn’t until Isabela eased her back against the bed and touched her lips to the crown of her head that Lucasta relaxed.

Everything looked strange to her, and it took her some time to realize that she was looking at the world out of only one eye. Slowly, Lucasta traced her fingers over the patch that Isabela had no doubt placed on her, and Isabela smiled, gently, _pityingly_ , which made Lucasta look away from her.

“I’m sorry, love,” Isabela said. “We tried to get you to a healer in time but...”

Lucasta sat in silence for a while.

After more than ten minutes had passed she asked: “Is the patch pretty?”

“Would I put you in an ugly patch?” Isabela asked. “I never let one of my crew wander around in something hideous.”

Despite the pain that lingered, Lucasta found herself smiling.

 

****

_S_.

Lying awake, weeks after the events that had changed Kirkwall, and her, forever, she remembered the note she had found when she’d investigated the mages gathering secretly in Hightown.

It had been signed simply, with only that letter scrawled at the bottom of the torn page. At the time, she’d thought the person had died with Grace and her accomplices at the Wounded Coast, but now she couldn’t be sure. After all, if the person was important enough to the cause to send correspondence, why had Grace and Thrask seemed the ones in charge when she’d arrived?

After everything that had happened it seemed silly to dwell on such a minor thing, but Lucasta couldn’t get it out of her mind. Something was familiar around the letter, about the language of the letter, and it wouldn’t leave her be.

Until she saw the woman, a few nights later, standing at the foot of her bed with moonlight glinting on the knife in her hand.

With only one eye, she had no depth perception, and seeing in the dark had become a challenge, but even still, she saw her, and she knew who she was.

Lucasta wasn’t afraid. She should have been; she should have hollered for Bodahn or Sandal or Orana, warned them that there was a person armed with a blade in her room. But she only watched the woman as she moved, slowly, towards her, the darkness hiding her features, but the moonlight that struck her blade showing a face wracked with grief and guilt.

“Hello, Sara,” Lucasta said, and the woman stopped.

Her calmness was strange, but the more she thought about it, the more obvious it became that this night had been long in coming. She’d been expecting it, somewhere deep down, and it became more obvious the longer she watched Sara sway at the foot of her bed, the only sound the heaviness of her breathing.

They had unfinished business. Dark, bloody; Lucasta wondered how Sara had waited as long as she had, how she had managed to be so patient. On the Coast, she had had the perfect opportunity to strike, but instead she’d hung back and allowed Grace to take the brunt of the violence.

Quentin had touched her life in ways she couldn’t ignore. The death of her mother only been the beginning; which proved what Sara had told her. Death was only the beginning, there was more that came after.

Like the hurt, the loss, the forgetting someone was gone and crying out for them in the middle of the night. Those were the things that no one ever told you about, and they were the things that never seemed to end.

“If you want to sacrifice me or whatever, you should know that I’m not all that tempting to demons,” Lucasta said. “So if you’re trying to trade me for him, it most likely won’t work.”

“I’m not here for that,” Sara said. “I’ve spent years imagining what it would be like to have Quentin back, to hear his voice and hold him close once more. But I know now that he is gone from me, and he will never return to me.”

“That’s healthy,” Lucasta said. “Good for you.”

“I’m here to kill you, instead,” Sara said. “For stealing him from me.”

“Oh,” Lucasta said. “That’s less healthy.”

Sara advanced, and when Lucasta tried to move from the bed, to get her feet under her and some kind of momentum in her favor, Sara was on top of her, pinning her to the bed, every bit of wickedness that Lucasta had seen years earlier back and shining in her eyes. The flash of her blade in the moonlight paled in comparison to that shine, but it was still imposing.

It was going to end this way, pinned beneath a woman whose delusions had convinced her of Quentin’s worth as a man. Dead because she had dared to punish the man who had tortured and killed her mother. Lucasta had survived the Blight, the crossing of the Waking Sea, Kirkwall’s violent streets, the Deep Roads, the onslaught of the Qunari, the fury of the Knight Commander...

And this was how it was going to end for her.

No. She wouldn’t die this way. She wouldn’t die at the hands of a broken woman, over the death of a man who served the world better cold and buried.

Lucasta gripped Sara’s wrist. She slashed, tearing the flesh of her arm, but Lucasta managed to keep the damage to a minimum and arc the blade upwards, away from her. They struggled, Sara bearing down her weight as Lucasta twisted underneath her. Hope surged through her when Sara slid off of her, but it was dashed when she righted herself and stroked downward with the dagger, missing Lucasta’s face by mere centimeters. She felt the air from the attack and gasped, desperately trying to get to her own blade tucked beneath her pillow.

There was no time. Sara drew the knife back, ready to plunge it into her throat. Lucasta remembered being told that her life would flash before her eyes when death loomed near, but nothing happened. All she could focus on was the shine of the dagger, the shine of Sara’s eyes, the slick heat of her blood trickling down her forearm.

Her strength faded, and she closed her eye.

When Sara slumped, bonelessly, against her, Lucasta’s eye flashed open.

Someone stood in the darkness over them, and for a terrifying moment she believed Quentin had returned, that Sara’s desperation had brought him back, had turned his spirit to flesh. But when the figure spoke, she relaxed, her body flushed with relief as Sebastian shoved Sara from atop her and lifted her up into his arms.

“Is she dead?” Lucasta asked. Even after all that had happened, even after the woman had gleefully planned on killing her, Lucasta wanted her alive. She was hurting, and Lucasta knew better than anyone how grief could twist a person into something they had never wanted to be.

“No,” Sebastian said. “She’ll be fine.”

Her arms were around his neck, and when he moved to separate them, Lucasta clung to him tightly. “I could’ve... I could’ve taken her myself,” she protested, and Sebastian’s laugh flowed through her warm and gentle, relaxing tensed muscle.

“I’ve no doubt,” he said. “But I thought I’d help, just the same.”

She almost asked why he was there, but she realized she didn’t really care. He was there, and he was solid, and warm, and she could only sigh gratefully against his chest as he moved her downstairs and told Bodahn to go and fetch the guards.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Sebastian said, as he tended to her wound and did his best to dress the gash. “It was dangerous enough in this city before... all of this happened.” He was careful around the subject, and the pain in his voice was all too apparent. When he looked up, his eyes were nakedly hurt, and Lucasta reached out to run her fingers through his hair.

“I’m fine,” Lucasta said. “People try to stab me all the time.”

Sebastian took her hand and pressed a kiss over her pulse. “This isn’t a joke, Hawke,” he said.

That was obvious from the way he watched her, and the way he looked at her from under the fall of his hair. He was worried for her, of course, but there was something else, and she wished he would just come out with it instead of making her run a million scenarios through her mind.

“I want to be with you,” Sebastian said, sensing her unease at the stretch of silence between them.

“We’ve already done this,” Lucasta said. “You remember being in the Chantry, with me, don’t you? Your memory isn’t that bad.”

Sebastian smiled, his kiss pressing against her pulse with more insistence.

“I love you,” he told her. “You know just what I mean, Lucasta. I do not wish to be from your side. I know that you believe circumstances will give us no choice, but I want to stand beside you.”

For _years_ , he had stood by her. He had been her friend and her companion and the one who had kept her steady and focused. Sebastian had asked nothing of her, other than her friendship; he was good, and she loved him.

“If not for the knife wound and the unconscious woman upstairs, this would be the perfect moment,” Lucasta joked. Sebastian’s smile widened, and he stroked his thumb gently over the bandage covering her wound.

“I can’t promise you that I will be able to keep you safe,” Sebastian said. “Not with the foolishness you get up to. But I promise that I will do my best, and I will cherish you, and honor you, and treasure you until the end of my days.”

“That’s almost as good,” Lucasta said, matching the strength of his smile.

Sebastian pushed himself up from his knees and touched their brows together, as he had done years before, with such sweetness and gentleness.

With her eyes closing, Lucasta whispered his name, and she found that the sound of it, and the feel of it on her lips, was the closest to home she’d been for some time.


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After leaving Kirkwall behind, Lucasta says goodbye to more than just her home of eight years.

Epilogue

Kirkwall faded behind them.

Lucasta stood at the stern of Isabela’s ship, with the ocean misting her face and the sky gray and bleak overhead. Though Ferelden had remained her home, even after so many years away, she couldn’t deny there was a strange feeling of loss as Kirkwall shrunk in the distance. Eight years of her life had been spent there. Friendships had been struck and forged and lost. There had been love and hurt and loss and grief and joy there, and while Lucasta believed so much darkness was being left behind, she couldn’t help that there was also a bit of light, forever snuffed.

The brightest lights, however, came with her, so Lucasta didn’t dwell on the loss too long.

Bethany leaned over the railing beside her, watching the water as it split around them and rippled back from where they’d just come. Her heart was not so tangled up in Kirkwall, Lucasta knew, but still, she gave her sister a sad smile when she pushed from the railing and walked towards the front of the ship to watch Isabela bark her orders and run her men ragged around deck.

Though she was no pirate, and she doubted she was even less of a crewmember given her limited knowledge of sailing and seafaring and... remaining upright as the ship bobbed, Lucasta liked the way the breeze hit her face, and the way the sky seemed to stretch on forever. The last time she’d been on a ship, she had been kept beneath the deck, more a prisoner than anything else as they’d sailed from Gwaren to Kirkwall.

Not a prisoner, she decided, but another casualty of the Blight.

Ferelden was still there, and she knew that it would always be her home. Yet she wasn’t sure if she could return there now. There were too many memories, too many painful memories that dug in like blades. Carver had died there, and Father too. So much had been lost, and just like the city she left behind, there was so much darkness in what had once been a bright place.

Lucasta wondered if she had a home any longer, or if she was only a wanderer now, adrift on the sea or aimless on the road, with nothing but the sky as her constant companion.

That was a lonely way to live, and Lucasta had never been very good at being lonely. She thrived on others, on their energy and their laughter and their presence, and if found herself alone she knew it would likely be the end of her; not that she would simply wither up and be blown away like so many ashes, but that she wouldn’t thrive.

Still, the safety of her friends was the most important thing to her. Isabela sailed the seas, but Bethany and Sebastian, who traveled with her, were no built to be pirates, and had no lust for the sea as Isabela did. Bethany belonged with the Wardens, and Sebastian felt that his place was by her side, for all of time.

_The Grand Cleric believes you are dangerous, that I should keep my distance..._

Lucasta looked down into the water, catching just a brief glimpse of her reflection before the choppy water claimed it.

“She was right, though,” Lucasta said. “I knew it then and nothing much has changed. You’re not safe.”

Startling her a bit, Sebastian leaned against the railing of the ship and looked out over the water. “Did you say something, love?” He asked.

“No,” Lucasta said. “Nothing.”

Sebastian watched Kirkwall fade with her, his eyes trained on the Gallows, deliberately not looking at the hole in the skyline where the Chantry had been. Though he had said his prayers and let go as well as he could, Lucasta understood that some wounds were beyond healing.

The Grand Cleric had tried her best to lead him in the right direction, but at the end of the day, no one could tell him what path to walk down. It was up to him where he ended up, and how he got there.

Lucasta hoped that he would find his way, somewhere safe.

She took his hand, drawing his eyes away from the city in the distance.

Kirkwall had been his home for far longer than it had been hers, and she could tell that dragging his eyes away, dragging his _heart_ away, was extremely painful. Still, he managed, and still, he smiled when she did, and he let the last weight of the place slip from his shoulders. His smile widened when Lucasta touched the bits of gray hair showing at his temples, his fingers resting over hers.

“Time does that,” he said, and that, Lucasta thought, summed up everything that had happened and everything that was happening and everything that would happen in the future.

_Time does that._

It made things change, it made people change. It took from you everything that you loved and cherished and needed. Sometimes it even took from you the things that you thought you needed to live.

Until you realized that time also healed and mended.

He needed to move forward, and with some finality, Lucasta decided that she did as well.

****

The night she left, Lucasta stood in the small chapel with Sebastian, everything outside of the small space non-existent. From the shape of his shoulders, he knew that she was leaving, and that it might be the last time he saw her, yet still he reached out to her, and smiled when she took his hand.

The little chapel wasn’t much, but it was the first sacred space Sebastian had entered since...

She knew that the subject was especially sensitive to Sebastian. After all, he had lost a woman whom he considered to be a mother -- only a few years after losing his actual mother to mercenaries and the savagery of politics. To bring up either instance was to drive a knife into the heart of him, so Lucasta side-stepped the subjects entirely.

The Wardens were not known for their spirituality, but they had built the chapel for those of their order that wished to pray and worship in private. Good thing, too, since Lucasta felt she and Sebastian needed the privacy.

They stepped up together into the nave, where candles flickered on long tapers and shadows stretched and flicked.

Still holding her hand, Sebastian began his prayer, and after a moment, Lucasta joined him, their voices echoing together in the empty chapel:

_“O Maker, hear my cry:  
Guide me through the blackest nights  
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
Make me to rest in the warmest places._

_O Creator, see me kneel:  
For I walk only where You would bid me  
Stand only in places You have blessed  
Sing only the words You place in my throat_

_My Maker, know my heart  
Take from me a life of sorrow  
Lift me from a world of pain  
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride_

_My Creator, judge me whole:  
Find me well within Your grace  
Touch me with fire that I be cleansed  
Tell me I have sung to Your approval_

_O Maker, hear my cry:  
Seat me by Your side in death  
Make me one within Your glory  
And let the world once more see Your favor_

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world  
And comfort is only Yours to give.”_

The last line spoke false, Lucasta thought. Comfort could be given by anyone, and it could _matter._

Her fingers tightened around his.

Sebastian looked to her, still smiling, and Lucasta kissed the corner of his mouth, gently, and said her goodbyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for asexualhawke on tumblr! Lucasta Hawke belongs to them :3
> 
> I'm always a little nervous when I'm writing someone else's OC, but Lucasta is a very charming and effervescent character, and I'm having a lot of fun exploring her and trying out her voice. <3


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